


The Space Around Us

by AnonymousSong



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Aftermath of Violence, Angst, Drama, Drug Use, Fluff, Forgotten Love, M/M, Memory Loss, Sherlock being a heartbroken mess, Unilock, you know all the good stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-04
Updated: 2013-06-04
Packaged: 2017-12-13 23:34:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/830134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnonymousSong/pseuds/AnonymousSong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(After, September 2009)</p>
<p>Sherlock deleted the solar systems.</p>
<p>He found that all he could think about were black holes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Space Around Us

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Pawtal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pawtal/gifts).



> So, this started off so differently, it's ridiculous. It was supposed to be a cute little Get Better fic for the fabulous darling, Pawtal, but it turned into something else, whoops. Hope you like it anyway, Lucy! :D
> 
> This thing deals with memory loss! What I'm about 99.999% sure is incorrectly depicted memory loss but I did as much research as my brain could handle Dx 
> 
> Please see the End Notes for my sources and the timeline as this thing jumps all around on their time line.
> 
> You're all gorgeous~

**(Before, December 1995)**

“Here, sit. I’ll call your brother.”

John looked up from the paperwork he was filling out to the boy on the end of the bench, deposited by a grumbling policeman. If John was diagnosing correctly, he’d say the boy was high as a kite on a windy day.

The boy flopped over, throwing his torso down on the wooden slats. His greasy black curls were centimeters from John’s thigh.

“You alright, mate?” he asked, looking down. A groan was all he got in return. “Bad night, then?”

Red-rimmed and bloodshot grey eyes glared up at him. John grinned back.

“I’d rather not be lectured by a doctor-in-training with a recent smoking problem and an alcoholic brother,” the boy spat out quickly.

“Uh…”

“I’m already going to have to endure my brother sticking his obnoxious nose into my business,” he continued, bringing his hands up and tapping his fingers against each other at a manic speed, “and getting arrested has killed my high-”

“I really don’t think it has.”

“-so if you would kindly leave me be so that I may enjoy these last few moments of peace.”

John had to bite his lip to keep from smiling and possibly laughing right in this boy’s face. “Er, okay,” he said instead, “as long as you explain to me just how the bloody hell you know that I’m training to be a doctor and that I smoke.”

“You’re around the right age to be training to be a doctor, 21 if I had to guess-”

“Turn 22 in a few months, you’re right on it.”

“And you reek of hospitals. I can see the cigarette box in your pocket and see the discolouration on your fingers; you’ve been smoking a lot very recently. Painfully obvious. And then there’s your brother.”

“Hm?”

“I can see your paperwork – Harry Watson for a DUI. Since you are not drunk, you are bailing someone out, very likely that it is family as it is the holidays after all, though it’s more of a shot in the dark.”

John sat back, smiling in a delighted and surprised sort of way. “That was actually kind of impressive.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, you got almost everything right and-”

The boy leaned over the side of the bench and threw up. It soundly splattered onto the floor and John’s shoes.

“Shit!” The police officer that had dropped the boy onto the bench rushed over. “Sorry, kid, Christ, I’ll find some napkins. I’ll have to call Jenkins in to clean again.”

“Again? This happens often?” John shucked his shoes and climbed off the bench without touching any of the sick. The boy had passed out.

“You have no idea. We try to get them sorted beforehand but sometimes their nerves or whatever’s in their systems gets to ‘em. Sorry about your shoes… Um...”

“Ah,” he grasped the offered hand. “John. John Watson. And I’ve got more, it’s fine. Training to be a doctor. It happens a lot.”

“Oh, good lad. You’re gonna get a lot of his type then.”

John laughed. “I don’t know about his type. Higher than the sky and yet he told me everything about myself, just by looking at me.”

The officer looked intrigued. “He deduced you, did he? Yeah, he does that a lot; shows up somewhere and just... spouts off all the facts about a person! Got himself into more than a handful of fights because of it, since he’s usually right and getting other people into trouble and such.”

“Well, he was slightly off with me,” John laughed. “Said I was here to pick up my brother.” John handed the man his paperwork. “I’m here for my sister.”

The officer looked at the paperwork and then down at the unconscious boy before tipping his head back and letting out a roar of a laugh. “Sherlock Holmes getting it wrong! Brag about that, kid, that’s a rare pleasure, I’m sure.”

“Sherlock Holmes,” John repeated.

“Yeah. Look, watch him another minute. I’ll grab Jenkins and your sister, how’s that? It looks like her bail is set at just over £200. She’s to show up in two weeks time.”

“Okay. I’ll make sure she gets there.”

“Alright, lad. Also, her license is revoked for 90 days. This is her first offense; let’s try to make it her last.”

John just nodded at the man walked away. The other people in the area were turning scrunched noses in his direction and at Sherlock’s mess. John didn’t blame them; it was starting to stink.

Sherlock groaned and rolled onto his back. John sighed deeply before, making sure to stay behind the bench and away from the sick, he pushed him back onto his side.

“It smells,” Sherlock grumbled.

“Yeah, that’s your own fault, isn’t it?” John retorted. “Stay on your side, you git, or else you’ll choke.”

“Not going to puke again,” the dark-haired boy promised in a mumble.

“Okay, sure. Stay on your side.”

John held the boy there until a janitor appeared with his cart of cleaning supplies, gloves, and a tired expression.

“Holmes,” the man greeted.

“Jenkins,” came the reply.

John rolled his eyes. “You owe me for this,” he teased.

Sherlock watched him curiously, as if determining if John was in fact joking or not. He eventually asked, “Dinner?”

\-----

**(After, March 2010)**

“You seem to be feeling better,” John noted, coming through the kitchen door with his hands full of Tesco bags.

Sherlock glanced up at him from his spot at the kitchen table. He held a pipette in one hand and was taking notes in the other.

“Mind over matter, John, as I said yesterday.”

“Oh, right. I’m sure it was your mind’s decision to throw up all over my shoes then, was it?”

“Puking is a way to get rid of foreign bacteria in the body, which is what I did.”

“Did it have to be on my shoes though?” John was teasing. Sherlock knew he was. He’d been more worried about Sherlock than about losing a pair of shoes. But it still twisted his stomach just a bit, the whole familiar scene. John turned to him with a grin. “You owe me for this.”

Sherlock kept his face well composed, choosing to simply raise an eyebrow, not daring whatsoever to possibly hope. It took him a few moments to determine if his voice was strong enough to ask, “Dinner?”

\-----

**(Before, May 1997)**

“You’re going to find it incredibly dull.”

“Oh, shut it,” John grinned. “You’re just upset that I’ve been spending most of my days at the clinic.”

“Ridiculous. Why would I be upset about that? You’re working hard to finally be the doctor you’ve been training to be. I’m just pointing out that being a GP in the army won’t suit your taste for adventure much more than being one in London.” Sherlock looked down at him with a straight face, giving nothing away.

In the year and a half that they’d known each other, John found that he was better at reading Sherlock and at understanding what he was really saying underneath what might have been considered harsh words.

So, even though Sherlock’s face was well composed, John saw through it nevertheless. He reached up on his toes to plant a soft kiss on Sherlock’s lips, still absolutely giddy to see a slight blush work its way up his face. “It’ll be fine. I’ll be in the hospital all day, away from the fighting. I’ll be sewing the men up, not in the front lines with them, yeah?”

Sherlock returned the kiss. The nervousness in his eyes had dimmed a bit, though John could see that he was still worried. It was a tentative relationship they had, constantly aware of John’s departure deadline looming over them.

“Chinese?”

John watched him but finally smiled. “Sounds wonderful.”

They considered the other for several moments before they began their walk. Sherlock even laced his fingers through John’s as they turned a corner.

\-----

**(After, February 2010)**

Sherlock found John on the sofa, head in his hands, not moving. He stood in the doorway for a few moments, feeling the anger coil in him. It was an ever present sensation, ever since August. On the good days, he was able to push it back, make himself ignore it.

On bad days, Sherlock held the mentality reserved for three-year-olds, wanting to just throw something or scream.

Because it simply wasn’t fair. Any of it.

They had been so _close_.

He locked the bubbling rage up, as there was something far more important that instant, before taking off his jacket very quietly and walking over. Sherlock knelt in front of John.

“Another headache?” he asked gently.

“Yeah,” John croaked. His thumbs started circling his temples. “Trying to remember something from medical school.”

“What were you trying to remember?” There was what felt like a glob of glue stuck halfway down Sherlock’s throat.

John moved his hands from his face, catching the hitch in Sherlock’s voice. He stared at him a little sadly before sighing. “I don’t know. A lot of it’s a blur. I remember the hallways and some of the lecture rooms but I can’t remember the faces or names.”

Sherlock stood. “I’ll get you some water,” he said, turning away.

Fingers shot out and grabbed his sleeve. Sherlock stopped. John’s face was once again covered with a hand but the other was grasping Sherlock’s arm as if John was drowning.

Carefully, Sherlock stepped closer and rested one hand on top of John’s head. His fingertips brushed through hair and felt the curve of John’s skull. He easily found the indent in the bone. He could feel how it had curved in and how it had healed.

Sherlock hated it. 

He curled his fingers away from it, his stomach twisting.

\-----

**(Before, September 2004)**

The first morning in their new flat together, John was sprawled atop Sherlock’s chest, grinning lazily. He blinked through a sleepy haze at the long, relaxed face under him. Sherlock’s hair was wild and soft looking. He seemed so young, like a little boy wrung out from adventuring in the woods all day.

John traced a finger slowly over Sherlock’s collarbone, a sharp feature like the rest of his bone structure.

Sherlock hummed, a smile tugging at his lips. Spidery fingers crept up John’s sides, pressing at bone and at the bruises that had been made the night before.

“You,” John rasped, voice still hoarse from sleep, “are absolutely beautiful, you know that?” He pressed his lips to Sherlock’s chest, his shoulder, his neck. “You should have painters flocking to your door to try to capture the colour of your eyes.” A nip on his jaw, a brief peck on the lips while his hands came up to thread into dark curls. “I could stare at you for hours and love every moment.”

Sherlock listened quietly, drinking it in. When John touched his lips to Sherlock’s forehead, he murmured, “Are you turning into a poet, John?”

John just shook his head, smiling, and leaned down to kiss the spot above Sherlock’s heart. “It’s your skin; you’re made of ink and constellations and lightning and I’m simply tasting it and can’t help but breathe some of it back out.”

\-----

**(After, October 2009)**

There were pictures, forms, certificates, and all other manner of paper strewn across John’s lap. He had been staring at them for nearly twenty minutes, as if uncomfortable with going through it.

Sherlock was in a chair near the side of the bed; far enough away that he was just on the edge of John’s peripheral view and not too close so as to make John uneasy. Sherlock wasn’t sure on how John felt about him at this point. He’d been there practically every day but they hadn’t talked much. He simply didn’t know what to say and John wasn’t starting up the conversations.

John flipped through a group of pictures, most from his medical school years. He frowned at the few of him at parties and studied the ones with many people standing around, as if searching for familiar faces. John put them down to reach for another set but they tumbled off the side of the bed.

“Oh, damn,” he cursed quietly.

Sherlock automatically stood and moved to pick them up. He gathered them all together and straightened to hand them back. John smiled at him.

“Thanks, Sherlock.”

There was the odd feeling of his heart fluttering and his gut twisting every time John said his name. It left him almost dizzy.

One picture caught Sherlock’s eyes and he picked it up. It was one that he himself had taken, one of the very few. John grinned at him outside the building of their new flat together, the one they’d specifically searched for together. The one they technically still lived in, though Sherlock hadn’t paid rent in two months. Mycroft had informed him that it was taken care of and let the subject drop. Sherlock wished that he hadn’t; he didn’t want to go back there.

“Hey.”

Sherlock looked up from the picture to John, looking at him oddly.

“Yes?”

“Ah, well, that’s just... That’s the first time I’ve seen you smile this entire time.”

Sherlock stared at John, only now feeling how his lips were pulled up. It immediately dropped from his face.

“Oh, come on!” John groaned. “Don’t do that! Try it again; smile for me again.”

A bewildered twist of his lips this time, as Sherlock was both surprised and a bit delighted. It didn’t last long but instead melted into a soft smile. He felt like his whole chest was seizing together in anticipation; for what exactly, he wasn’t sure.

“There we go!” John positively grinned. He held up another picture. It was from when John had brought Sherlock to meet Helen for the first time; John was bent over laughing, tears in his eyes while Sherlock was absolutely glowing, looking at John like he was the best thing in the world. “Little more work, I think we can get there.”

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed softly. “I think so.”

He pulled his chair closer.

\-----

**(Before, July 1999)**

“Did you know that the neurons in the brain look sort of like stars?”

Sherlock looked up from his microscope. John grinned at him from his spot on the sofa, an astronomy book open in his lap.

“Yes, actually. Did you know that a solar system looks similar to how an atom appears?”

John laughed, “That’s brilliant! Like we could be in some bigger thing’s head right now. Just sparks. Maybe even our heads are full of stars.”

Sherlock returned the smile.

\-----

**(After, January 2010)**

John came up the stairs, steps heavy and hands obviously full. Sherlock stayed very still on the sofa and just listened.

He set the bags of groceries on the kitchen table. Sherlock shut his eyes.

There was the rustling of plastic and the pop of the refrigerator door opening.

Silence.

Sherlock counted to fifteen before he was certain that he would be able to stand. He stood and walked to the kitchen.

John was staring into the refrigerator that was full and obviously recently filled. There was a gallon of milk in his hand, threatening to fall any moment.

“I already went to Tesco,” John stated, still staring.

“A few hours ago,” Sherlock confirmed.

John was frozen for a few more moments before silently placing the full gallon of milk next to its twin in the refrigerator. He shut the door and turned away, not looking at Sherlock. He went to the bin and very deliberately threw away the list of groceries from his pocket.

Sherlock wondered how it was possible to drown in a room full of air.

\------

**(After, September 2009)**

Sherlock deleted the solar systems.

He found that all he could think about were black holes.

\------

**(Before, September 1996)**

“Would you rather be deaf or blind?”

John watched Sherlock quirk an eyebrow at him over their dinner. He simply smiled back.

“Are you planning anything ruthless depending on my answer?”

John laughed loudly, disturbing a few other diners and not caring. “No, you git. It’s just a question. One of those ‘getting to know you better’ things.”

“I rather thought those were dull, such as if you prefer cats or dogs and if you like cream cheese or not.”

“Well, those are for normal people.” John swirled his fork through a pile of noodles.

Sherlock smiled softly and thought very briefly. “Deaf.”

“Figured. You’d go mad without your sight; wouldn’t be able to make all your deductions.”

“Which would you rather?”

John sat back and thought about it. “I really don’t know. Bit of a toss-up. Though,” he teased, “if you were the deaf one, I think I’d have to be blind. That way, you can be the eyes and I’ll be the ears.”

“What an odd pair we would make.”

\-----

**(After, September 2009)**

“John?”

Helen stood to the side of the bed, watching worriedly as John worked his way to consciousness again. After nine days in a comatose state, he’d finally started to wake, opening his eyes, moving, trying to talk, though falling back under after a few seconds or minutes.

The last dozen or so times, though, he’d stayed awake long enough for them to talk to him a bit.

Sherlock felt like he was tunneling to a new level of Hell each time.

“John, dear? Do you know where you are?”

“Think so,” he mumbled out, trying to reposition himself. John flinched when he pressed too hard on his head. “Hospital?”

“Yes, for a head wound. You remember?” Helen smiled and stroked his forehead. She hesitated before asking, “Do you know who I am?”

John stared at her for a few moments before admitting that he didn’t. He apologized.

Sherlock’s stomach turned.

“That’s okay. I’m your mum, sweetie.” Her smile turned a bit broken. She turned her eyes to where Sherlock was sitting. John followed her look, seemingly noticing Sherlock for the first time.

“Hello?” It came out like a question, like John wasn’t quite sure why a tall bloke with hollowed eyes and a dirty button-up shirt was sitting by his bedside. As if he was expecting Sherlock to introduce himself first.

“John,” Sherlock greeted, his voice dull. His hands were together, gripped tightly.

Blue eyes watched him for a few moments before John cleared his throat. “Sorry, uh, I don’t...” He quickly looked between Sherlock and Helen and back. John flashed him an apologetic smile; it cut, like a knife was delicately tracing Sherlock’s ribs. “I don’t know your name.”

The first time he’d heard that, Sherlock had heard a roaring in his ears and had had to leave the room, leaving behind a confused John who would later forget the whole thing.

The second time, he hadn’t said anything, just stared and stared and prayed for silence.

The fifth, he’d gotten used to swallowing past his first instinct - to scream, to cry, to throw up - and simply replied, “Sherlock Holmes.”

By the dozenth, his voice was forced and tired and he couldn’t even fake a smile.

Sherlock wondered how many more dozens of times he was going to have to re-introduce himself to John Watson.

\-----

**(Before, May 2005)**

They were both quiet. John stood a step above Sherlock, so that he was the one looking down for once. Sherlock would not meet his gaze.

“Hey.” He placed his fingers on the sides of Sherlock’s head and lifted until he could see grey eyes.

“Try and return in one piece.” It was an attempt at a joking tone that came out more like a prayer.

John understood the message all the same. He leaned forward and kissed Sherlock soundly, deeply, enough that it felt like the feeling of their lips together was going to be seared into his very core. Only when they couldn’t breathe did he pull back.

“I’ll always return to you,” he promised. “I love you. Just remember that, yeah? I love you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock gripped John’s forearms hard, as if he were trying to bruise the bone, leave his mark. At least that way, he’d always have a place to hold onto.

\-----

**(After, September 2009)**

“Sherlock?”

He looked up, tearing his eyes away from the figure in the bed.

“Helen.”

She stood in the doorway, her hair short and grey. Her eyes were the same shade of blue as John’s, her soft smile pulling up just the same way.

“It’s good to see you again.”

“Under the circumstances, I can’t return the feeling.”

Helen nodded, understanding. She walked to the side of the bed Sherlock was not occupying, looking down at her son in the hospital bed.

“I’m just glad he came back,” she admitted gently. Helen grabbed John’s right hand and rubbed at it with her thumb.

Sherlock was quiet with his shoulders slumped and defeated. He held John’s left hand with both of his own, not taking his eyes off his face.

“They said,” Helen started slowly, “that it’s severe.”

“Yes.” Sherlock shut his eyes, his jaw clenching.

“That they were lucky to find him in time.”

“Yes,” he whispered.

They sat in silence, both swept up in their own thoughts. A quiet knock on the door jolted them out of it.

“Mrs Watson?” the doctor at the door asked.

“Yes, that’s me.”

The man’s eyes went to Sherlock, trying to judge if he should be in the room or not.

“He’s with me,” Helen reassured. “Whatever you have to say to me, you can say to him.”

The doctor nodded and stepped fully into the room, closing the door behind him. “Mrs Watson, Mr…”

“Sherlock Holmes.”

“Mr Holmes. John has suffered from very severe head trauma and a bullet wound to his shoulder. At the moment, we believe he’ll be able to heal from the head wound within several weeks and he’ll need to go through physical therapy for his shoulder. He’ll have that scar the rest of his life, I’m afraid. However, we won’t know much more until he wakes up.”

“Thank you,” Helen said softly after a moment, eyes glassy.

“There’s one more thing.” The doctor cleared his throat. “Based on the area of the trauma and the severity of it, the possibility is very high that he is going to suffer from memory loss. We’re waiting until he wakes up to determine the worst of it but you should be prepared. In cases such as this, the predicted sort is retrograde amnesia – he won’t remember much of anything from before and it will take therapy and time for it to come back, if it does at all. He’ll most likely also suffer from some anterograde amnesia – it’ll be hard for him to make new memories.”

“He won’t remember anything?” Helen asked quietly. Sherlock felt dizzy.

“It really depends on how he is when he wakes up. Most of the time, retrograde amnesia is not permanent. Older memories will most likely come back though anything within the last few years will be less likely to return.”

Helen nodded and took a deep breath. The doctor looked between them before excusing himself, leaving them to process the information, promising that someone would stop by later.

Sherlock closed his eyes, his heartbeat overly loud in his ears. His hands were shaking.

Leaning forward, Helen stroked John’s forehead, going over bruised skin and bandages.

Quickly, Sherlock jumped from his seat and began pacing, running his fingers through his hair. He exhaled heavily a few times. It felt like the air in the room was choking him.

“Sherlock,” Helen said, worried, watching him go back and forth. 

With a strangled roar, Sherlock drove his fist at the wall, causing a small dent. He pulled back his arm and slammed it again, leaving a red mark. Sherlock moved to do it again but Helen was there, her hands wrapped around his wrist.

At her touch, Sherlock immediately slumped, his shoulders dropping. Helen led him carefully back to his chair where he flopped down. His knuckles were bleeding.

Sherlock swallowed a few times and rasped, “It’s not fair.”

“No, it’s not,” Helen whispered back. After a moment, Sherlock’s head came forward and rested against her hip. His eyes were glassy and unfocused. Helen stroked through his hair, making comforting sounds.

“It’s okay, Sherlock,” she said quietly. “He’ll remember you, I know he will.”

\-----

**(Before, April 2005)**

“You know, the police don’t consult amateurs.”

Sherlock turned to him, offended. “I am _not_ an amateur.”

John regarded him with a straight face. “No, you’re not. But you look it when you show up at a crime scene higher than the bloody sun. You’ve got to present yourself right for them to even consider for an instant listening to you.”

Sherlock glared. “We’re not arguing this again.”

“No, Sherlock, we’re not. I’ve told you how I feel about your drugs, you’ve acknowledged that you know how I feel about it.”

“And you’re running back to the army to avoid talking about it anymore.”

“I am not running anywhere, you bastard. You’ve known from the beginning that this was my plan and you shooting up and acting like a fucking child is not going to make me stay! I’m trying to help you! Trying to get you started with your detective bit because I want you to have a future, Sherlock!”

“ _You_ are my future!”

John paused at that. He smiled sadly up at Sherlock, a breath of a laugh leaving him. “I’m part of it, I hope, yes. But I know you. When I come back, I can still be a doctor, yeah, but what are you going to be doing? Are you going to sit on the sofa forever? You’d drive yourself insane in a week! I’m just trying to help!”

“I didn’t ask for your help!”

“Too bad! You’re going to get it because I love you, you brilliantly daft git! And you can stand there and shout at me and pretend I’m not leaving but I am, Sherlock. And you’ve got to prepare for that.”

Sherlock surged forward and crushed his mouth against John’s, pressing him into the wall. John returned it with equal passion, gripping Sherlock’s coat until it felt ready to rip.

“Don’t leave,” he pleaded into John’s mouth, like he did every night and morning. “Stay, please.”

“I can’t, Sherlock.”

“You _won’t_.”

“I’ll be back, I promise. I’ll always come back, Sherlock, always. I promise, love, I promise.”

\-----

**(After, August 2009)**

“Dammit, Sherlock, open your eyes! Get an ambulance! Come on, do _not_ do this!” Lestrade shouted, pumping his hands on Sherlock’s chest. “Come _on_ , Sherlock!”

Around them was a needle and a syringe that had been filled too far and the remains of shattered phone that had once read:

_JW status is currently MIA. –MH_

_FIND HIM –SH_

_We’re trying. –MH_

\-----

**(Before, August 2004)**

“It’s three a.m., Sherlock. The neighbors are going to complain.”

“I need to _think_ , John.”

John watched him; his hands were twitching around his violin and his joints jumped oddly as he paced around the living room of their small flat. He was trying. God, he was trying so hard.

In the month since John had officially returned from the army, he knew that Sherlock hadn’t done anything. They’d gone to parties and clubs and had drinks together, celebrating that they could, but John knew that Sherlock hadn’t done any drugs, at all, though he had been blowing through cigarette boxes at an alarming rate. John had purposefully stopped smoking because of it.

“All right then.” John decided that the neighbors could go rot. He didn’t like them anyway. Perhaps they should move, get a new flat. “Go on.”

There was a beat of silence before Sherlock finally paused in his movements. He raised the violin to his neck and breathed deeply before playing. It started as a long, low note that dragged out for longer than John thought possible.

He felt like he was flying and falling, all at once; like something had sunk a hook through his spine and was pulling him in every direction. He felt like crying and laughing and sinking to the floor.

Sherlock played until the sun rose and John stayed with him.

\-----

**(After, August 2009)**

“You want to explain what the bloody fuck that was?”

Sherlock stubbornly didn’t look at Lestrade, who was fuming over him.

“Nearly five years I’ve known you, Sherlock, and-”

“It was John,” Sherlock cut in. He very much did not want to hear Lestrade's angry rant for the next hour. “John is... missing.”

Lestrade actually stopped, mouth opening and closing a few times. “Oh,” he finally said quietly. He let the silence sit between them for nearly a full minute before shaking himself out it. “Look, I’m sorry but you can’t just-”

Someone cleared their throat very deliberately. Sherlock’s teeth ground into themselves while Lestrade whipped around.

“Oh, Mister Holmes.”

“Detective Inspector,” Mycroft greeted. “If you wouldn’t mind, I need to talk with my brother for a few minutes.”

“Right.” The D.I. cast a glance back at Sherlock before stalking out of the room, closing the door behind him.

Sherlock kept his gaze on the floor.

Mycroft carefully watched him in silence, taking in the shaking hands and thin lips. Finally, when Sherlock’s anger at him felt like a physical form in the room, he said, “He’s alive.”

Sherlock snapped his grey eyes up.

“They found him and the other three men. The rest of his squad was killed. They’ve been treated and are currently being transported to a larger hospital.” Mycroft paused. “He has massive head trauma but as soon as he’s stable, he’ll be moved here, to London.”

“And the men who captured him?”

Mycroft knew that there were people who thought his brother to be a sociopath, a freak. They thought him to be emotionless and cold.

The rage that burned in Sherlock’s eyes would prove every one of them wrong.

“They are no longer a problem.”

\-----

**(Before, October 2007)**

Sherlock stood frozen in the doorway while John grinned at him. He tossed his bag down and stepped into the flat.

“Surprise,” John said when Sherlock continued to not move. “You going to let me?”

Snapping out of it, Sherlock rushed forward. In one quick movement, they were fully pressed against one another, Sherlock already working to tear John’s clothes off. John laughed into Sherlock’s mouth, barely getting the front door shut behind him before he was dragged towards the bedroom.

They bumped into the walls, nearly tripped over every thing that got under their feet, and fingernails caught on skin and invoked rumbling moans.

“How long?” Sherlock gasped out.

“You’ve got me for two weeks.”

Sherlock held John’s head in his hands, licking his way up his neck and jaw. John splayed his hands across Sherlock’s chest, the thump of his heart beating against his palm.

“I am going to _fuck_ you,” Sherlock growled out, biting John’s shoulder.

John shuddered. “God, yes.”

Their knees hit the bed and Sherlock pushed John down on it. He miscalculated the distance and a resounding _CRACK_ echoed through the room as John’s head connected with the headboard.

“Christ!” John shouted, reflective tears in his eyes and he held his head.

Sherlock stood above him, stunned and frozen. John started laughing, the tears making their way down his face.

“Come on, you git. I’m fine. Sounded worse that it feels, I promise,” he reassured between giggles.

Sherlock slowly climbed on top of John, manic energy gone. Gently, he leaned forward and kissed the crown of John’s head.

\-----

**(After, February 2010)**

Sherlock kept his eyes shut as John made his way down the stairs.

“It’s three a.m. Sherlock,” John remarked, heading to the kitchen. Sherlock heard him fill the kettle and switch it on.

He kept playing. He didn’t want to open his eyes; just sensing John was enough. Sherlock didn’t want to think about the familiar scene or head wounds or deleted data.

John came back into the living room and sat in his chair, a cup of tea in hand. Sherlock played until the sun rose and John stayed with him.

\-----

**(Before, June 2005)**

John fumed quietly. He filled a glass with water and wet a rag before walking back to where Sherlock was sprawled on the sofa.

Sherlock watched him through half-lidded eyes, his hair sweaty and matted to his forehead. John carefully wiped it clean, not meeting Sherlock’s eyes.

“Here,” he muttered, passing the glass of water to him. Sherlock took it and slowly gulped it down, keeping his eyes on John the entire time.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly once he was finished.

“No, you’re not,” John replied back in a hard tone. He took the cup back.

“You were supposed to come home later-”

There was a loud _CRASH_ as John threw the cup away from him, sending it shattering against the opposite wall. “Shut up, Sherlock!”

“John-”

“No!” John pointed a finger at him, eyes blazing. “You don’t get to talk when I come home and find you completely off your head high!”

He breathed heavily for a few seconds, kneeling down next to the sofa and rubbing at his eyes. The silence around them stretched to a painful peak. Sherlock tentatively reached his right hand out. John glared at it before silently sighing and gripping it tightly.

John moved forward and pressed his lips to the spot between Sherlock’s eyebrows before resting his forehead there. They both closed their eyes and stayed like that long after John’s legs were sore from kneeling.

With a weary sigh, John leaned back, opening his eyes. He let go of Sherlock’s hand to hold his face. “You are killing your absolutely gorgeous mind and it...” He swallowed and took a deep breath. “It’s killing _me_ , watching you do this to yourself. I...” John looked away, shaking his head. “I can’t lose you.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Sherlock said quietly. 

\-----

**(After, December 2009)**

Sherlock moved closer to the door, cracked open a bit, shamelessly eavesdropping.

“I don’t even really know him, though,” he heard John say. “I mean, he’s been here just about every day but...”

“I know,” Helen said gently. “He’s just confused and upset, sweetheart. He doesn’t know what to do, though he’ll never admit it.”

“He’s not the only one confused,” John muttered.

“John. Please, just know that he loves you very much, even if he doesn’t say it. You both have such a long past together and I think...” Helen paused. “I think he’s afraid.”

“Afraid?” Sherlock could almost hear how John’s eyebrows came together, how his head cocked to the side. “What of?”

“Of losing you, dear. He’s absolutely terrified of losing you.”

\-----

**(Before, December 1999/January 2000)**

“I come all the way home for New Year’s, and we don’t even leave your flat,” John mumbled into Sherlock’s neck. They were lying in bed facing each other, the sweat still drying between them. Outside, the noise of people celebrating was a dull roar.

“Would you rather we join the idiots outside?” Sherlock asked, running his fingers up and down John’s back and side.

“God, no,” John giggled. “I wasn’t complaining.” He planted a kiss on Sherlock’s collarbone. “Just pointing it out.”

Sherlock hummed and the ruckus grew outside until they could hear people start to count down. As the numbers dropped down, John rolled them over so that he was straddling Sherlock’s waist, smirking down at him.

When the people finally shouted out the final number, and cheers and screams of celebration went up, John leaned down and pressed his lips to Sherlock’s ear.

“I love you, Sherlock Holmes.”

John moved up and kissed Sherlock’s delighted gasp, smiling as much as he could. Outside, the boom of exploding fireworks echoed.

\-----

**(After, December 2009)**

John pushed himself out of the wheelchair, giving the nurse a smile. He watched her walk back inside before turning to Sherlock.

“So, where’re we off to?” he asked. He was looking around as if he was ready to explore everything.

Sherlock was quiet for several moments before shaking his head. “You don’t have to come with me, if you don’t want to,” he said softly.

“Hey.” John stepped closer, his smile a bit unsure. “Look, I, uh, I know that it’s weird since we’re supposed to have this whole... history together and I’m... Well, I’m just not remembering it, but listen, you’re my friend. You’ve been with me this whole time and, come on, who else would want me for a flatmate?”

Sherlock found himself smiling and swallowing past shaky breath. “Well, as long as you don’t mind me playing violin at all times,” he teased.

“Sounds brilliant. Come on, I want to be away from this damn hospital.”

Sherlock laughed, couldn’t help himself really, and held out a hand for a taxi. When one pulled up, he opened the door for John and watched him clamber in.

“Where to?”

“221b Baker Street.”

\-----

**(Before, February 1998)**

John chuckled into the phone. “So, and I know you love hearing this, but you were right.”

“I am about most things,” Sherlock teased in his ear. John noted how tired he sounded. Was he even sleeping? Eating? Was he shooting up on his sofa with no one there to make sure nothing went wrong? “What was I right about this time?”

“You’re such a wanker.” John grinned, deliberately pushing his worries to the side. “And it’s right boring here. I feel like tearing out my own hair.”

He could practically hear the smirk on the other side of the line. They both fell quiet, just listening. John felt like there was so much to say but nothing that would make sense came to mind.

“You could always come back,” Sherlock murmured. It tore at John’s heart and he gripped the phone tightly.

“I get a visit in a month,” John replied, knowing that that wasn’t what Sherlock meant.

Sherlock didn’t say anything else, just breathed.

“I miss you,” John told him, voicing what he knew Sherlock would not. He pressed his forehead to the wall and closed his eyes, imaging. “The time’ll fly, just you watch.”

“Hurry home.”

\-----

**(After, March 2010)**

They climbed the stairs, both exhausted, mentally and physically. It was after four in the morning and Lestrade had said he’d come by around noon for the rest of their statements. Mycroft had been in touch and said that Moriarty was being searched for.

Sherlock opened the door and shut it once John shuffled through. He watched John collapse into his chair, hands shaking. His eyes were closed, forehead pinched in the way it usually does when he had a headache.

Shucking his coat and shoes, Sherlock moved to stand in front John. He looked so small, curled in on himself. Even though John’s hair had grown over it, Sherlock’s eyes still locked on the spot where those bastards in Afghanistan had taken a gun and hit him once, twice and-

John opened his eyes and peered up at Sherlock.

“That was...” he scrubbed his hands over his face and cleared his throat. “That was something.”

“You’re remembering.”

“Yeah.”

Carefully, Sherlock knelt down and reached up to place his hands on either side of John’s head. John stayed still, not saying anything, keeping his eyes closed as Sherlock’s fingertips massaged his temples.

“I remember being a GP... in the army. Not specifics but... I remember the hospital and the heat.” John gave a soft laugh. “I remember it was boring.”

Sherlock smiled slightly before his face went smooth again. 

“I remember you.”

He went still as John opened his eyes again to peer at him. 

“God, it’s like that tip of the tongue sort of feeling, just in my head. Like there’s so much there, just on the edge but I can’t reach it.” John looked agonized. “I remember a feeling, Sherlock, of you being there. Like you’re holding onto me.”

“John,” Sherlock breathed.

“I don’t remember specifics but...” John reached up and placed one hand against Sherlock’s face, watching his eyes go a bit wide. Sherlock’s hands went to John’s forearms and he swore he could almost feel the indentations he had left there before. “I do remember you, I swear. Not everything but I... I promised you, didn’t I?”

“What?” Sherlock gasped.

“I promised you that I would come back.” John shut his eyes tightly and breathed deeply. He opened them again and searched Sherlock’s face, almost begging. “I did, didn’t I? I promised?”

“John.”

They met in the middle, as if they were pulled together, lips pressed against one another. Sherlock gave a weak laugh of delight that John kissed and tasted. He pressed forward like his body was rediscovering a craving, an addiction. Sherlock tipped backwards and John followed him to the floor.

“God, I’m sorry, Sherlock.” John kissed his neck. “I don’t remember that much but-”

Sherlock rolled them over, John under him. “Don’t,” he said, pressing his forehead against his. “Don’t apologize. You came back.” A wide grin spread across his face and he vibrated with a surprised laugh. “You came back!”

“I promised you I would.”

Sherlock pressed his nose to John’s neck, his body shaking. “I love you,” he whispered into his neck. He leaned up and kissed John on the forehead, the nose, the mouth, repeating himself with each dropped kiss. “I love you, John, I do.”

“I love you too, Sherlock.” John threaded his fingers into black curls and kissed Sherlock again, grinning just as much as him. “I love you too.”

Sherlock closed his eyes and just listened, smiling like a fool.

\-----

**(Before, March 2009)**

The moon shined through the windows, the only source of light in the room. It was just bright enough for John to make out the curve of Sherlock’s nose, his lips, the curl of his hair. He didn’t feel like sleeping. So he was staring; had been for hours now.

Sherlock opened his eyes, breathing in deeply before looking at John, who was resting atop him, and smiled sleepily. “What?”

“I was having a crazy thought,” John whispered. He trailed his fingers up Sherlock’s sides, smirking as the body beneath him trembled.

“What sort?”

John wiggled upwards so that they were eye to eye. Leaning on his elbows, Sherlock’s hands on his waist, John briefly dipped his head and kissed Sherlock on the lips.

“I was thinking that it would be absolutely brilliant, Sherlock Holmes, if you would marry me.”

Sherlock looked up at him with wide eyes. John brushed his fingers through Sherlock’s curls.

“Well?”

“You’re leaving in ten hours,” Sherlock croaked.

“So? My deployment is over in seven months. We’ll do it when I get back.” John smiled at him. “I would love to call you my husband, Sherlock.”

Sherlock just stared at him, apparently speechless. His mouth opened and closed a few times.

John deliberately held Sherlock’s face between his hands, looking at him very seriously. “Sherlock Holmes,” he said in a very clear voice. “Will you marry me?”

Sherlock suddenly laughed in a surprised, breathless way and brought John’s face down so as to kiss him. “Yes,” he gasped, “yes, of course, John, yes.”

John positively shined, laughing delightedly. “Yes?”

“ _Yes_.”

They kissed deeply, fully, drowning in the breath of one another.

“Looks like you’re stuck with me, then,” John giggled, pressing their foreheads together.

“Just so long as you come back.” Sherlock kissed John’s throat and lips and forehead, marveling at how light he felt, at how he felt like he was _flying_. He felt high off of John’s presence alone and closed his eyes to savour the taste of John’s delighted laugh.

“You know I’ll always come back to you, Sherlock. I promise you, I will.”

\-----

**Author's Note:**

> Memory loss sources: [[x](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Retrograde_amnesia)], [[x](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anterograde_amnesia)], [[x](http://www.human-memory.net/disorders_retrograde.html)], [[x](http://www.tbiguide.com/memory.html)]
> 
> Sources/headcanon about John's military life: [[x](http://wellingtongoose.tumblr.com/post/30681523063/semantics2)]
> 
> John's timeline:  
> (1995) 21 - Meets Sherlock  
> (1997) 23 - Graduates medical school, joins army  
> (2004) 30 - Has been in the army for seven years (as a GP), got bored, goes to train so to actually fight  
> (2005) 31 - Finishes at Sandhurst  
> (2009) 36 - Captured, head wound, is saved, brought back to London, has to go through physical therapy  
> (2010) 36 - Goes to Baker Street with Sherlock


End file.
